The wind off the cold North Atlantic ocean
smells of piquant seawater on its breath,
agreeably pungent, brackish and moist.
The legendary Nor'easter off Newfoundland,
the bane of so, so many ships at sea,
is not a breeze with a soft, caressing hand.
It kicks and knocks and slaps and whacks and thwacks,
pummels and punches, pinches and pushes.
The stolid, sturdy imperturbable island
sits there and puts up with the abuses.
The northeasterly wind is very resentful
of its odiferous reputation.
At night, it simmers and seethes and smolders,
writhes and trembles, weeps and whines, stirs and sulks.
But, like the song says, the wind and sea smells
are "perfume to my soul". I stand alone on shore
and listen to the ocean's roar, wind's woosh,
and my mind decompresses, destresses;
this is my peace, my serenity.
I am home.
So, a rich, entitled surfer dude with multiple useless degrees.
Whacks a rich CEO of a health insurance company.
Suddenly he's the Robin Hood of the A.I generation.
Feeding the blood of the rich and greedy
to the uninsured and needy. (Top that, Greta Thunberg).
get out your words and try
try to make everything all right
sling them like arrows
into the gauntlet of time
do they even know
what they're trying to find
or do they just need to unwind
this old man played
too many knick-knacks too many times
too many paddy whacks to give his dog a bone
and that's okay... he's got his syllables
to lead him... astray ...or guide him home
it doesn't matter... they love to roam
over the highways and byways
through space and time
through the intricate mazes
of his heart and mind
not looking to mean anything
but to be happily lost.. like petals in the breeze
fluttering, floating and flying free
that's all they've ever needed to be
but if they could find their way
to a better place on some promising day
and could kiss you long enough
sink hard enough and deep enough
they'd never be forgotten
What’s gone wrong with Granddad’s dong, it used to be so long
Once the length of Granddad’s dong made Gran burst into song
His dong would go throughout the night, to Grandma’s sheer delight
And Grandad’s dong and Grandma’s song would brighten up each night
But now when Grandma wants a dong, my granddad grasps his mallet
It’s very old and feels like it’s made from a wooden pallet
He grasps it with both hands and Grandma yells, “Just swing that sucker!
Remind me how you swung it round in your best bib and tucker.”
So Granddad grips it in both hands and swings for all he’s worth
He hopes to get a lengthy dong and not just Grandma’s mirth
Granddad couldn’t tolerate another dong that’s dud
And so he whacks his mallet hard, which makes a dull, flat, thud
But Grandma said, “I see what’s been occurring with your dong,
And why of late your dong has been a little less than long.
A dull dong cant reverberate, a dull dong can’t play long,
It’s no good up against the wall; you should have hung that gong!”
Who the hell is Gordon Bennett
Some think there’s insanity
In the fact we call his name
As though it were profanity
Not so famous nowadays
As once he used to be
But still I call his name out
When a doorframe whacks my knee
I put my hammer to one side
To take a tiny break
And then cry Gordon Bennett
Where’s it gone for goodness sake
Did poor George Armstrong Custer
At the massing injun nations
Cry out Gordon Bennett
We’ve made underestimations
Or is our Mr Bennett
Just a UK kinda guy
Who’s name is shouted loud
As one more bus goes speeding by
Well, frankly I don’t care
That English language travels on
Gordon Bennett is world famous
Back where I come from
This unknown hero all my life
My unpretentious tenet
Is by my side in times of strife
His name is Gordon Bennett
Above my head, foliage, and feathers clatter
as a hawk tangles with a squirrel.
Above my head, Russian tanks pop their tops
in boggling bubbles.
Just above a bald patch, shaggy clouds squat to piddle.
I am heads above those below,
the silver slick worms hardly notice as I thread through
the less grassy and bare.
Mind-hairs are a real thing, mine wave their thin tentacles
like fishing sea anemones, they snack upon
the overheard overhead; ripple gently
in the whisking winds.
A highbrow gets above itself, stutters as it utters.
I wear the headgear of long dead heroes, they ride
my scalp, baseball bats wave there whacks,
ultra-maga veterans of foreign wars
salute my stiff necked, heads-up pose.
There's a world of wonders down under,
but just above my head, that's where dandruff
ponders its flaky notions,
and all high-flown conundrums learn to fly.
O, elvenstone! O, elvenstone!
O, would that you could be my own.
To quest exhausted, all these years,
And not obtain those pointy ears
To sharpen sense, to hear my phone.
O battle axe! O battle axe!
For thy pursuit, my patience lacks.
Through garbage bins in fishing wharves,
Midst arguments with boorish dwarves;
My neighbor’s tree needs forty whacks.
Fine coat of mail, thy filigree
Would sure enhance the likes of me.
So tightly woven, silver, pale
Protect unwanted barbs’ assail
When getting honey from my bees.
Thou mighty blade, enchanted runes
Do grace thy hilt but not those hewn.
Sure, separating sinew, bone,
Ne’er losing edge in dirt or stone,
When Saturday, the hedge I prune.
I think that we can both agree:
When I immerse in D&D,
I get so caught up in the game,
Imagination is to blame;
Sometimes I blur reality.
----------
RPG - role playing game - I used to play Dungeons and Dragons some 40 years ago when you used dice and mapped everything out on graph paper. I imagine things have changed a bit since then...
My eyes go into the skies
Like dark flame
My legs sink into the sand
Like dirt in water
The ice in the rain
Swirls and whacks my head
The flood, sprinting towards me
Its malice, chasing me to the thatch
That burns in the depth
Of the dark
Women, sure, are fighting back:
Don’t rebelling energy lack;
For men’s vicious and hateful whacks,
Their sometimes murderous whacks.
Each time one is made to seem an imp,
Some male body goes down or limp
A confused one begins to sex starve
And can attack with what women have.
You don’t a woman try to jilt
And she sits back to watch you or wilt
A time to patronize men she would dump
Better that than a throat with a lump.
Mam told me I must eat my greens
I’m certain I know what she means
I pick lots of snot,
And then eat the lot
It’s tasty and full of proteins!
Mam’s livid and screams ACT YOUR YEARS
Aged fifty, I burst into tears
She whacks me round the head
Then she sends me to bed
And now I’ve got cauliflower ears!
For a lovely on line friend who gave me the first line and challenged me to write a poem ... it caused many snickers when he got the final poem
12/23/21
When Judy plays Doctor & Nurse
She always quotes chapter and verse
Then whacks off a tad
(The Rabbi's her dad)
And that's how young boys learn to curse
Behind the Veil of Friendship
Your friend, walks very slowly behind you.
Seeing the harm coming your way.
His sword out, he protects you back.
And you know nothing, you are not even
aware of the coming whacks!
You have innocent dreams, that people
really do like you.
He knows far better, how bitterly some do
despise your poetry, too.
While you dream of the goodness of man.
He goes sleepless, in your defense, doing
all that he can.
Nobody will listen to him, in their expensive
pajamas.
But then, they are soulless, possessing
no trained nashama.(soul)
Thank God, for a friend so abundantly blessed.
Who far surpasses any meagre, friendship test!
Both evil and good, exist in man’s veritable soul.
My friend, is one, so courageous, hardly a gross,
self-seeking, popularity mole!
12/5/2021
When one is poetically possessed,
Nothing like the truest rest:
For every braved forty winks
Whacks for new poems and resistance sinks!
One is very free to weep
But one isn’t snatching any sleep:
One’s Poetic Tormentors, a zillion number,
Obsessed with The Ecstatic no less The Sombre!.
You’re hailing your tormentors but with reluctance,
This act dragging to a crushing distance;
At God’s feet dropping respectful grudges,
Not as forgivable as sexual urges …
Only God Himself knows when it shall end,
For those spirits aren’t ready to bend;
When one is poetically possessed,
Sleep becomes one’s rarest guest.
There is an ob-gyn named Doctor Payne
He guarantees he'll live up to his name
When his patients groan
He whacks their skullbone
Delivers the baby plus a migraine
No one would ever know because he was cagey
The children were in the car but they did not see the body
It had not started smelling yet.
She had only been dead an hour or two.
They were asleep by the time he reached the woods.
He began to dig, but the ground was unusually hard.
He had not figured this in. One of the kids woke up.
Began screaming for Mommy.
If she did not stop, she would be joining Mommy.
He had no need of kids in his new life.
It would be easy. A couple of whacks over the head.
The kids were small, and he wanted kids with his new girl.
He looked up and saw a tree staring at him with his wife’s eyes.
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